Harold reassured her that as soon as he had finished his tea, he would get going. He told his story, which she heard in silence. This was why he couldn’t stop or see a doctor; he had made a promise to Queenie and he must not fail her. He took a sip from his mug, and looked at the window. A large tree trunk stood right in front of it. Its roots were probably damaging the house and it needed cutting back. Beyond, the traffic came at fast intervals. The thought of returning outside filled him with dread, and yet he had no choice. When he looked back to the young woman she was still watching him, and still not smiling.

“But you’re fucked.” She said it without emotion or judgement.

“Ah yes,” said Harold.

“Your shoes are fucked. So is your body. And your spectacles.” She held up the two halves of his reading glasses, one in each hand. “Every way you look at it, you’re fucked. How do you think you’re going to make it to Berwick?”

It reminded him of the very deliberate way in which David swore; as if he had carefully considered all the options and, given what he felt for his father, the foulest expressions were the only ones suitable.

“I am – as you rightly point out – fucked.” Harold hung his head. His trousers were splattered with mud, and frayed at the knees. His shoes were sodden. He wished he had taken them off at the door. “I admit it is an awfully long way to Berwick. I admit I am wearing the wrong clothes. And I also admit I have not the training, or the physique, for my walk. I can’t explain why I think I can get there, when all the odds are against it. But I do. Even when a big part of me is saying I should give up, I can’t. Even when I don’t want to keep going, I still do it.” He faltered because what he was saying was difficult and caused him anguish. “I am terribly sorry but my shoes appear to have wet your carpet.”

To his surprise, when he stole a glance at the young woman, she was smiling for the first time. She offered him a room for the night.

♦